


It Happened One Night

by waxjism



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, embarrassing early efforts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-07-01
Updated: 1999-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waxjism/pseuds/waxjism





	It Happened One Night

Although the moon has waned to an anorectic crescent, some of the wolf senses remain. The most prominent of them is the sense of smell. It seems the world has gained a dimension. He lacks the vocabulary to explain what he experiences, but it reminds him of last summer, when he dropped acid for the first and last time. It had started out just fine, and ended in him trying to fly. But he remembers the way his senses seemed to become intertwined, interchangeable. Well, that's what this is like. Now it is as if his nose constantly competes with his eyes, and he can practically see the smells, like lingering traces of faded paint superimposed on the visible world, on the ground, on the walls, hanging in the air.

He doesn't need to see people to recognize them anymore. He can smell her a block away. Right now she is far closer, just at the end of the hall. Her smell is green, like seawater or spring leaves. He smells something else on her as well, a thick, brown smell, like rawhide and copper wire. He realises with a touch of unease that she is menstruating. Sometimes supersenses tell him just a little too much.

He has a sudden image of himself between her legs, licking the blood off her, out of her. He pushes it away, annoyed and a little frightened. And it goes, but not before the fantasy, for surely it was a sexual image, shows him just a glimpse of what that other part of him wants to do with her. That part of him that is purely sybaritic, with no concern for love, law or anything but its own damned bloodlust.

He is so immersed in his gloom, his dangerous daydreams, that he doesn't notice her approaching until she is right behind him, proving that even werewolf senses aren't infallible. Then her scent, leaves and grass and fragrant moss mixed with rotting blood, swirls around him, and he is instantly, roaringly aroused. He doesn't dare turn around. He can feel her heat through the back of his shirt, hear the rhythmic thuds of her heart, the swishing of fresh, red, sweet blood rushing through her veins. The smell of the other blood is pushing at his senses.

With a superhuman effort, he claws himself back from the brink. He turns to face her.

"Hi Oz," she says, dazzling his loving, human eyes with a smile.

"Uh... Willow, hi..." he mumbles, his hands fists in his pockets. It gets harder every month, keeping the beast down. Maybe he is getting sexually frustrated.

"I was thinking... I was thinking my parents will be away next weekend. You know..?" She is blushing just a little. He looks around crowded hall. This is not the place to have this discussion.

"Um... let's talk about it on the way, ok?"

He has been expecting her to get to this. After all, they're seniors, they've been going out for six months. The natural thing to do would be to get down to it. Everyone else is doing it left and right, it seems. He is no virgin, but he hasn't so much as jacked off since the change. Too scary. Hormones. Best way besides a full moon to really make the wolf buck and howl. This situation is just like something from a bad horror movie. I'm thinking about ripping her head off and she is going to suggest a sleepover.

They walk in silence out the doors and over the schoolyard. She is keeping her eyes on the ground until they lose the crowd of homebound highschoolers. Then she stops him in the shadow of a large weeping willow (how appropriate), and meets his eyes. Oh, she is beautiful. He reaches out and hugs her tightly. It feels good, natural, and not a squeak from the wolf.

She untangles herself from his grip, seems about to speak, but changes her mind and kisses him instead. Although she isn't usually clumsy, she manages to stumble conveniently, falling against him and turning a chaste peck into something quite different. He kisses her back, pulling her closer, savoring it until he feels the beast rattling its cage again. He breaks the kiss with a pang of regret.

"I'm ready," she says, eyeballing him fearlessly. He pushes her away gently, and goes to pacing nervously to and fro. She is trying to hide it, but her eyes show hurt feelings. So does her smell.

"It's not that I don't want to, Willow," he starts, sounding ridiculous and whingey even in his own ears. "It's the... um... the change. I might not be able to control it. I suppose werewolves aren't supposed to be in love."

"So there's nothing we can do about it?"

"This thing doesn't come with a manual, Willow," he mutters, exasperated. He is immediately sorry for snapping at her. "Well, you could always chain me up, you know, but even if it would make for a pretty interesting experience, I don't know if you'd want to have your... your virginity taken by a raging, bloodthirsty animal."

"I want to try," she says, and there's steel in her voice.

"What?"

"I am just sick and tired of walking in circles around you and the whole subject. I am eighteen years old; I'm entitled to a sex life. Maybe it won't be anything like my daydreams... they are more about candles, roses and Barry White... but... but..." She trails off, her small burst of anger spent. She looks at him wryly. "So I'll see you next Saturday then? Bring the chains." And with this rather amazing statement she turns and leaves. A perfect exit. He stares after her until she vanishes around a corner.

***

He doesn't see much of all week. She spends a lot of time in the library, and he just isn't feeling up to meeting any of them right now. After all, Buffy is a Slayer, and he is technically a Slayee. Sometimes he could swear she sees right through him. It is not a pleasant sensation when your insides are a lot less human than your outside. Of course she knows, they all know, and they never say anything, but he thinks he can feel a small air of disapproval when he's around them, as if he's a pet that's not quite housebroken.

He tries to make himself busy with band practice and reading. He even does some homework, which is quite an amazing change. Still, it doesn't keep him busy enough. He awakes on Saturday morning covered in sweat and sticky come, with lingering images of Willow still banging against the insides of his skull. He has torn the bedclothes to shreds. Probably not a good sign.

He spends the morning and most of the afternoon in a daze of panic-laced anticipation. Then, around three, he gives up and calls her.

"Are you still sure?" he asks, perhaps a little desperately. She doesn't even hesitate.

"Of course."

"Then you'd better come over here."

"Why?"

"Because I don't think your bed is sturdy enough to hold a horny werewolf, that's why."

"Oh..." Now there is small hint of terror in her voice, but she's still determined. "Ok, I'll see you in half an hour then."

***

She is afraid when she gets to his house. In fact, she is absolutely petrified. But she is not going to back down out of abject fear. She likes to think she is made of stronger stuff than that. After all, she has faced death in its many more unpleasant forms on several occasions. Sex could hardly be a more terrifying experience than, to pick the most common occurrence, facing Armageddon. Even sex with a werewolf had to be more fun than that.

And Oz is such a sweet boy, very considerate, very gentlemanly. Well, apart from the time he tried to eat her. But she has witnessed his change a few times after that, and the chains should be enough to keep him from hurting her. Too much anyway. Why are you doing this, Rosenberg? the most practical (and cynical) part of her inquires. Do you have a death wish, or is this just a part of some rape fantasy I didn't know you had? It is a legitimate question. She ignores it. It is time to take one step further towards a looming adulthood. She pulls a nervous hand through her hair, straightens her back defiantly, draws a hissing breath and rings the bell on Oz's door.

***

She doesn't look any different today than any other days, and yet the mere sight of her at his doorstep quickens his pulse. Her expression is wavering between determination and reluctance and she smells slightly of adrenaline and fear, but her smile still feels natural. He doesn't wait for her to speak, but reaches for her as soon as she is inside the door, to stop an awkward moment from developing. As soon as she is in his arms, his senses are flooded with her presence. He buries his face in her hair, nuzzles her neck, runs his hands down her back. She presses herself into the embrace, her small frame fitting perfectly against his. She lifts her face to kiss him. The wolf inside him lifts its head. He lingers in the kiss, trying to hold it back. It allows itself to be checked for now, but he can feel it's awake. He tries the boundaries, exploring her willing mouth, her pliant body. She is responding to it, he can smell it on her skin. The sour, sallow smell of fear is being replaced by the altogether more titillating aroma of sexual pheromones. His nostrils flare unintentionally as his own hormones kick in, making his head spin and his heart race. He can still control the change, but its taking a bit more concentration now.

"How does it feel?" she whispers.

"Wild," he answers honestly. "Did I just grow a coupla feet?" She takes a small step back and eyes his modest five feet four inches. They share a giggle, easing the tension a little. Then her hand creeps into his, and she leans over to whisper in his ear, her lips barely grazing his skin, her breath maddening, her scent filling his consciousness.

"Are you ready?"

He bows his head, letting it rest on her shoulder, pressing his face into the hollow of her throat.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

***

He has done his best with the basement, but it still looks like something out of a snuff porno. The sheets with their teddy bear pattern clash almost obscenely with the heavy metal shackles that hang ominously from rings in the wall and in the back frame of the sturdy iron bed. He has turned off the naked bulb that hangs abandoned from the concrete ceiling and instead opted for candlelight. Frankly, it doesn't do much for the Early Suburban Dungeon feel of the dank room. She stops at the foot of the stairs and takes in the view for a moment. Her hand tightens around his.

"No one will ever believe me", she mumbles.

"Do you want to videotape it? Something to show the grandkids." She laughs, a surprisingly hearty sound that echoes from the bare cinder block walls. Then she walks over to the bed and sits down, kicking off her shoes. Her posture shows no awkwardness, no fear; not even the steely determination to get it over with he had noticed when they first talked about it. What he sees and smells in her is simply anticipation tempered with love.

***

She is riding a mellow, lusty buzz. The room doesn't invite thoughts pertaining to Barry White, it's perhaps more of a Marilyn Manson scene, but it doesn't put her off. By now she realises that Oz is probably a lot more scared than she is. After all, the responsibility is on him in this situation. This is all new to her; she is used to being the one thinking too much about consequences. For all she knows, she might be dead or maimed before day turns to dusk, but somehow the thought has stopped frightening her.

She glances briefly at the shackles, wishing for a moment that she had a normal boyfriend so her first time won't have to be made into this S/M spectacle. She sure doesn't feel much like a dominatrix, ready to chain up the guy and take charge. She wants gentle embraces, soft-focus foreplay. But what can you do? She loves Oz, far more than she ever thought possible, and she must accept the conditions as they are presented.

With something that is half a sigh, half a whimper, she pulls off her cardigan, feeling cool, and slightly damp air chill her bare arms, teasing the skin into goosebumps. Her nipples are hard and ache a little, and she feels tentative warmth spreading between her legs. Her body is ready, at least, if her mind isn't. She closes her eyes and thinks about him, imagining him naked. He is a beautiful boy, his body powerful beyond his diminutive stature. His hands are thin and long-fingered, guitar-callused. She thinks about them touching her. She thinks about his thick red hair, which is the same color as her own, and his grey eyes that can be both mischievous and deadly serious at the same time.

She opens her eyes and looks at him. He is still standing by the stairs. He meets her eyes for a moment, and then, in a fluid, graceful movement, he is next to her, on top of her, pushing her down on the bed. His mouth finds hers, his hands slip from her shoulders to her small breasts. He has never touched her quite this way before, but she doesn't mind the invasion. Instead she arches her back a little, pushing towards him, letting her own hands do some roaming. She feels his muscles bunching under his shirt, and she wants the thing off him. She wonders if it would be appropriate to ask him to take it off now, then thinks _fuck_ appropriate (this is a new side of her, even to herself) and quickly unbuttons the rather threadbare garment and slips it off his back. She presses her nose against his shoulder, sliding her hands down his back. His skin is hot and fragrant, as if he has been lying in the sun. She pushes him back just a little bit, to have an eyeful. His shoulders are bony and his collarbones just starkly under tight, winter-pale skin, but there is also a quite surprising amount of muscle. He looks sinewy and tough, like a marathon runner, perhaps. She doesn't think it looks like the body of an eighteen-year-old. Maybe the werewolf in him changes even his human body, she muses.

His nipples are dark pink and look oddly defenseless on his pale chest. She touches one with a thumb, rubbing it a little and watches it shiver erect. She hears him whimper softly under his breath, and without letting any thoughts get in the way she puts her mouth over the nipple, licking tentatively, letting her teeth gently graze it. This time the moan is louder, more like a _growl_. She realises that if she wants to get out of this alive, she better chain him up right now. Her mind flickers to an image of the phys ed teacher talking about daterape. Miss Gordon had not mentioned the eventuality of an over-excited boyfriend actually _eating_ his girlfriend. But then, lycantrophy is probably not the most common excuse for domestic violence.

She drops her hands to his jeansfly, ignoring his startled gasp, keeping her face and mouth pressed against his smooth, still blessedly hairless chest, fumbling with buttons, tugging at the stubborn thing. He gets off the bed and slips out of the pants, revealing black underwear barely concealing the first live erection she has ever encountered. She raises her eyes quickly to his face, blushing. For a moment, she stares at his eyes. Aren't they just a little bit rounder and tawnier than usual? It is definitely time for the shackles if she wants to get them on before he is too strong and too far gone to let her.

She takes his hand and pulls him back down on the bed. As she pushes him off her and onto his back, she sees his nostrils flare wide and his eyes turn one more shade towards yellow. They are almost glowing now, and she tries to ignore the nagging fear the sight of them inspires in her. As she leans over him, pinning his arm above his head, he growls, a low, rumbling sound that is poised somewhere between purr and protest. A sudden burst of adrenaline kicks in, and she manages to hold his right arm down with one hand long enough to clamp the heavy cuff around his wrist. He is fighting her now, his small body a bundle of live electric wire under her, squirming, thrumming. The growl grows and stretches into a howl. His free hand tears at her top, ripping the thin cloth. She punches him in the stomach, her panic adding strength. He twines his hand into her hair and yanks brutally. She cries out in pain and fear, and struggles helplessly. For a second he lets go of her hair, only to slap her in the face with a hand that seems made of cast iron. She suddenly realises that her struggling simply is turning him on all the more. She forces herself to go limp, ignoring the pain in her jaw and the fearful flutter of her heart. After a horrible moment when he seems only to grow stronger and more violent, he settles down as well. The animal howl fades in his throat, his heartbeat slows down.

Finally she feels a gentle, slightly trembling hand touch her shoulder.

"Willow..?" It is his voice, his human, warm voice. "Did I hurt you?"

He sounds frightened and young and a little lost. She looks up to meet his eyes. They are wide and naked, deep grey and all him. She shakes her head, not trusting her voice to answer.

"I'm sorry," he says, dejectedly. "I just... blacked out." She nods quietly, biting her lip. Then she takes a deep breath, and quickly throws herself on his free arm, pinning it down and wrestling with the handcuff. He doesn't resist, but she wants to be on the safe side.

"Uh... Willow..?" he says uncertainly. "What are you doing?"

"Look, it's never going to get any easier, Oz. I'll never be more ready, it'll never be the right time. So it's a kinda now-or-never-situation. If we leave it now, we'll never find the nerve to try again. So we won't leave it."

He looks almost absurdly grateful. He seems strangely helpless now, with nothing of the raw, exuberant power he had when the Wolf was closer to the surface.

She shackles his feet as well, taking her time to tickle him a little just to show she's not about to pull out the bullwhip. He squirms helplessly and giggles loudly, the wolf sinking deeper and deeper. She is mildly surprised at her own shamelessness. She is in a bed (teddy-bear patterns notwithstanding) with a practically naked, chained-up boy, and she isn't even sporting a blush.

She slips off the bed, feeling this new and strange confidence surge through her. She smiles benevolently at his prostrate form. He stares back, his eyes still human and aware, his lips slightly parted in silent awe. The confidence experiences a slump. She suddenly longs intensely for his arms around her, for some guidance. But that can't be unless she also wants him to tear her still-beating heart from her chest. She is completely alone in this.

She takes another deep, trembling breath, and pulls her top over her head, revealing the small, white, lace bra she has picked for the occasion. She starts unbuttoning her fly, trying to stay cool, trying to remember if she has ever undressed in front of anyone of the opposite sex before. She is intensely aware of his eyes on her.

She manages to get her jeans off while retaining some measure of dignity. She climbs back on the bed, snuggling up against his still form, listening to him breathing in short, trembling bursts, his heart beating like a bass drum under the tight skin of his chest.

"I love you, Willow," he whispers hoarsely. She presses her mouth to his ear.

"I love you, Oz." She moves slowly, straddling him, fighting down a touch of awkwardness as she allows herself to fully realize what she is doing. She knows she is a prude, awkward and inhibited, and yet here she is.

Time to get over myself, she thinks. Which is when a thought strikes her out of the blue. They have been very preoccupied with protecting her from his animal rage, and in the middle of it all neglected to even mention the more mundane subject of prophylactics. Shit.

She bows down to kiss him, her thick cascade of auburn hair falling over his forehead, rippling over his chest.

"Um... Oz..?"

"Wha..?"

"Er... um... what about... you know..?"

Realization dawns on his face. Willow feels grateful that she won't have to spell it out.

"Shit," he mutters. "Well, I'm sure I have some in my wallet." She is already looking around for his jeans. "In my coat pocket upstairs."

She sighs theatrically and crawls out of the bed.

"Right. I'll go." She looks back at him. His grin is lopsided and a little embarrassed. "Don't move."

She leaves him as he is and pads barefoot up the narrow stairs and into the quiet house.

She is halfway through the living room when she is startled by the phone ringing. For a while, she contemplates just leaving it to ring, but then she gets worried it might be an emergency (which wouldn't be completely unlikely in this town), and picks up the receiver.

It's Buffy.

"Willow, is that you? Where's Oz?" What to answer to this, then. Willow decides to dodge the question.

"Why? What's going on?"

"Oh, nothing, I just called your house and you weren't there, so I figured you'd be here. I was going to ask if you wanted to come down to the Bronze tonight."

"Well... "

"Willow? You're not going to sleep with him, are you?"

"Well..."

"Everyone knows what happens when werewolves..."

"Buffy!"

"Hey, I should know what it means to have an undead boyfriend, alright?"

"Oz is not technically _undead_, Buffy. And he's not going to...er..."

"Lose his soul, you mean? Probably not. But you might lose a few limbs, on the other hand."

"We're taking precautions."

"How very nineties of you. Look, I'm going to the Bronze with Xander, but I'll curve by and look in on you two lovebirds on my way home. Just in case, you know."

"Just in case...right."

She finds Oz's coat on a peg by the door. While she is digging through the collected debris in the pockets, she looks out the window, and for a second stands frozen. The moon should be black right now. And technically it is. It looks like someone inverted the colors of the sky. In the middle of the sky hangs something that looks suspiciously like a full moon, only dark. It can't be there, of course, that would be in breach of a lot of laws of physics, but this is Sunnydale. So they made us a complimentary full moon, she thinks. Just to help us along the way.

"It's not fair," she tells the moon out loud. "I'm so sick of this! All I want is to get laid and go to college. In that order, please. Anything for a normal sexlife... " She opens the door to a crack and looks out. Just another bright and sunny day. That unnatural moon is still watching her mutely. It's positively _looming_ up there in that perfect, china blue sky. Willow is caught, moth to lamp, in that dark glare. Strangeness.

***

He hears the phone ring, but he's not sure if she answered it or just let it be. But she has been away longer than it could possibly take to find the damn rubbers. Maybe she's still on the phone. There's an itch on his nose. His arms are beginning to ache.

Where is she?

God, he's sick of being a freak. You find the girl you love and...and...anything to just be able to touch her without fear. Anything.

***

Sunnydale at midnight looms darkly behind Buffy as she walks up the driveway to Oz's house. The door is open a crack, and it shouldn't be. Buffy isn't afraid, that word isn't in her vocabulary, but she is worried.

"Willow..?" she calls. There is no answer. Resolutely, the fearless Slayer swings the door wide open, ready for anything.

Whatever has been here is not here now. There's only Willow lying on the floor of the hall, wearing nothing but panties and a bra. Her face is serene, her eyes empty and staring. There is a fresh, purple bruise spreading over her left cheek and jaw.

"Willow!" Buffy kneels and shakes her friend's limp body. For just a fracture of a second, she thinks she is too late, but then Willow's eyes clear up.

"Buffy? What are you doing here? Uh... why am I on the floor?"

"I came to check on you two. And I guess I should have been here earlier. What the hell were you up to?"

"Earlier? But... we just got off the phone... didn't we?" Willow is sitting up, rubbing her head. Buffy is already looking around for trouble.

"Negative, that was seven hours ago. It's midnight, the spooks are out, and something funny is going on in this house... hey, where are you going?" Willow has scrambled to her feet with surprising speed, and is now headed into the house at a run. Buffy follows.

The first thing she notices as she comes down the basement stairs is the smell. Willow has stopped right at the foot of the stairs, and Buffy almost runs into her.

"What..? Willow, what is it?" Willow doesn't answer; she just stands frozen in the pitch-black room. The stink in the room is worse than zombies, a sickly blend of vomit mixing with the sharp ammonia of urine, the heavy, brown odor of feces, and through it all, like cyanide in tea, the metallic-organic reek of fresh blood. It all comes together with the smell of adrenaline-laced sweat to make up the smell of fear. Buffy finds the lightswitch on her left and flicks on the lamp.

And stares in disbelief. The bed in the middle of the room looks like a set from the Exorcist. It is streaked with every kind of human waste. Some of it has even dripped off it and is forming a vaguely brownish puddle on the concrete floor.

In the middle of all this filth lays Oz, naked and still chained up like a torture victim on the rack. He looks tiny now, helpless and somehow childlike. His head has rolled back on his neck, his face is blank.

He has tried to tear loose, only managing to cut open his wrists, deep, gaping wounds laying bare muscle and tendons and a glimpse of white bone. Blood has coursed abundantly down his arms and legs.

Buffy hears a strange, high-pitched whine, and for a moment thinks it's coming from the bed. Then she realizes it is Willow, who is coming out of her first shock. Her friend runs to the bed, sobbing and choking on the thick, cloying stench. She is calling his name, trying feebly to wipe off some of the gore caking on his wiry body. Buffy tries to pull her away, but Willow slaps at her hands.

"Go away!" Buffy backs off a little, then reaches out and checks for a pulse under Oz's puke-stained jaw. It is there, steadier than she would have thought. He stirs a little, groans deep in his throat and moves his eyes.

"He's alive!" Willow says, looking up at Buffy with shining, grateful eyes. "I thought he was dead, I was sure he was gone, I..." She looks back at her boyfriend. "Please go away, Buffy... Don't look. It's so... it's my fault. Go call 911, look for first aid. Something."

"Uh-huh, Will. You know what will happen if anyone sees this? They'll lock us up for a long time. It's like Torquemada had a private party here. Just get him out of those cuffs, and we'll see what we can do."

***

She looks down at the filthy, bleeding, pathetic scrap of a human being (well, almost human, anyway) that is the boy she loves. When she unlocks the shackles, his limbs flop limply down, making him look so dead she wants to vent another scream. Then he moves his head a little, and she can breathe again.

He'll have to be carried upstairs. He can hardly weigh more than 120 pounds, but she doesn't think she can manage on her own. But she can't let Buffy help her, not when he looks like this. He is so helpless and bare. It wouldn't be fair.

She pulls the sheets off the bed. The cover and blanket are pretty much compost, but the undermost sheet is almost decent, just a little damp and musty.

She looks at Oz, who still doesn't seem aware of her. She has tried to wipe him off a little, managing mostly to spread the gore around on his skin. But he is still wearing his underwear, and they will have to come off. With a determined frown, she reaches around him and pulls the soiled things off him. For a second she finds herself staring at his penis in its nest of curly red hair. Then he moves a little, and she blushes hotly and quickly covers him with the sheet.

 

Together they carry his limp form upstairs. Willow is grim-faced, stubbornly biting back tears. Buffy is unusually subdued and soft-spoken. And quite suspicious.

"I just don't think he'd get like this under normal circumstances. Sure, seven hours is a long time to be chained to a bed. I can imagine getting cold, and numb, and scared. Maybe pissing myself. But you don't wear your wrists to the bone fighting cuffs that clearly can't be fought; you don't puke and shit your guts out or bite your lips to tatters. It's like he's been getting electric shocks. Something did this to him." Willow can't but agree.

"And I was unconscious for seven hours. I can't even remember falling down. Here, let's put him in the tub and I'll clean him up a little."

"He'll be alright, Will. I mean, he's a werewolf. They are practically indestructible."

They lower him gently into the tub. He seems a little more there, his eyes more focused. He flops his limbs weakly against the enamel, like some strange aquatic animal trying to learn to move on dry land.

Buffy takes one look at Willow's face and backs out of the   
bathroom.

"Alright. I'll go clean up in the basement. Leave the wetwork to the Slayer. I am an expert on eliminating evidence."

***

He is floating away, but it doesn't seem to help. He can still feel the pain surging through his body, still smell the sour stench of his own vomit. A fleeting line from a movie pops into his head. "I'm in a world of shit", says Private Pyle before he caps the drill Sergeant with some well aimed seven millimeter full metal jacket bullets. And then he proceeds to smear his own brain matter over the pristine, toothbrush-cleaned tiles of the bathroom.

But he isn't Gomer Pyle, is he? There is no M-16 in his hands. There are, however, bathroom tiles. And searing pain in his head, his hands and feet, his abdomen and his throbbing groin. And something warm and wet moving over his aching body, soothing the shivers, washing away the awful stink.

A momentary flash of lucidity lights a small candle somewhere in a corner of his brain. He is in his very own bathroom, in his very own tub. Over there is his very own rubber duck, the one he's had since he was a baby. And someone is washing him with a soft cloth, taking special care not to touch the wounds. And someone is also crying, softly but heart-wrenchingly.

He floats away again, trying to mentally outrun the pain and whatever revelations lie in it. He focuses on the good things he knows, like the hands with their washcloth very gently exploring his ravaged body, every nook and cranny of it. He is reminded of the time when he had pneumonia in third grade and had to stay two weeks in hospital. The nurses gave him sponge baths. That was before Sunnydale, before all the monsters, before _he_ became one of the monsters. Before Willow.

Lucidity flashes again, and now he knows who it is washing him and trying to subdue her sobbing. Willow is here, warm and breathing, gloriously alive. When she didn't return downstairs, he'd been sure she was killed, torn to shreds by some other, worse monster than him. He had called her name, called again and finally screamed it at the top of his lungs, only to be met by utter silence. And then... then something had come for him, and there was only pain. He had tried to hold on to images of Willow, especially that last one, of her on top of him, her hair falling into his face, her thighs warm against his, the gentle swell of her breasts pressing against his chest, her lips, her smiling green eyes...

And here she is now. He opens his eyes to look. She isn't looking at him, only crying while still lathering him, as if she is washing a corpse. Her hands are more observant than her eyes. Perhaps she is trying to impress the shape of his body in her minds, through those gently stroking hands.

He tries to speak her name, but his mouth is like the aftermath of a bushfire. All he manages is a dry croak. He tries to swallow, but he can't seem to work up enough spit. His arms and legs feel very far away, cold, numb logs that seem like they don't really belong to him and never will. He uses all his willpower to move them, to make them obey. They do move, but he only manages to hit them against the tub wall. Then Willow's hands are on his face, and she is peering into his eyes.

"Oz?" she says, her voice only a thin squeak. He nods almost frantically, giving his headache more gusto. A bit of feeling is returning to his limbs, but now he wishes it hadn't, since the exposed nerves scream in unison with his head. He turns his head to the side, loses control of the movement and bangs it into the hard side of the tub. He watches his left hand lie limply at his side. He can't remember when or where he got those deep, nasty wounds. He glimpses something white in the mess of tattered red meat. An exposed tendon? Bone? He feels faintly sick to his stomach. But the wound looks like a textbook diagram, carefully drawn and peculiarly bloodless. It is already healing. The positive side of lycantrophy, he figures.

"Oz..?" Willow whispers again. "Can you hear me? It's over now, it's over. Buffy is cleaning up downstairs. She called Giles, I think. Something very strange happened here. Can you remember anything at all?"

He remembers screaming her name, thinking she was dead. He can't tell her this. Her voice sounds too frail, her face too vulnerable. And he doesn't really want to try to sieve through his heap of shattered images. All he really wants is to crawl into a warm, clean bed, preferably one with Willow also in it, and sleep until the pain is gone.

Instead, he relaxes into the tub, enjoying the warm water rising around him, Willow's hands still trailing over his ill-used but healing body. Those hands, in fact, seem to be getting a little frisky at this point. He realises that she has abandoned the washcloth, and is now, quite frankly, feeling him up. He truly doesn't mind. Another old wet dream come true. Then her roaming hand dips between his legs, hesitating only for one maddening second before gripping him gently. His cock, which only a few seconds ago had felt like a clump of raw meat, wakes up singing. He is too dazed and tired to reflect much on this, but Willow seems a little surprised. She doesn't, however, stop.

She is eyeing him under lowered eyelids, looking a little furtive, as if she is afraid he might slap her in the face any minute. For a while, he is happy just to lie back and feel slow, steady waves of pleasure roll through his body. Then he realises that he is not only getting quite aroused, but that the wolf is quiet. He can feel it in there somewhere, but its roars are feeble and distant, as if it is being pushed away by something stronger.

Then new strength flows into his battered body, and his limbs are back under his control. He reaches out and pulls Willow towards him, kissing her with his sore mouth, winding his arms around her. She is still only wearing her bra and panties. The kiss is ferocious, hungry, but he still isn't even close to changing. Her hand is still in his lap, working him deliciously, driving him raving mad in a very human way. He makes a clumsy attempt at getting out of the tub, managing only to drench her in water. She helps him, yanking him over the edge, and they fall into a tangled, dripping heap on the soggy carpet. Willow pulls him on top of her. He fumbles with her bra and almost tears it off her. She only moans softly when he buries his face between her small breasts. She is squirming underneath him, her lacy underwear creating an unbearable friction. He slips his hand down and hooks a thumb in the waistband. She lifts her hips urgently when he pulls the panties off.

***

She loses sight of reason and logic by the time he falls on top of her on that old, damp bathroom carpet. She is only aware of his hands on her breasts, his dick pressing insistently against her thigh, his hot breath on her face. She isn't a girl usually much concerned with graphic sexual fantasies. She is completely unprepared for this clawing, overwhelming need that grabs her, the need to have him inside her right here, right now. There are no coherent thoughts to accompany the act. When he finally gets her panties, the final obstacle, off her, she spreads her legs automatically, forgetting completely to fear pain, pregnancy or lycantrophy.

He pauses for a heartstopping second, pushing himself up and catching her eyes. She pulls at him, thrusts her hips urgently. Then he seems to overcome his hesitance, and is easing in. She feels the barrier stretching, protesting. Resolutely she grits her teeth and pushes upwards, impaling herself.

There is pain, hot and sudden, but it seems somehow unimportant, easy to ignore. Things fall into place with arresting finality. He fits inside her just right, his body is a perfect match for hers. And he is nearing climax, and is still not a werewolf.

She feels her insides loosening and melting towards something and then her vision blurs and her heart races and she screams his name as she comes. She opens her eyes wide and looks into his face. He is thrusting into her with increasing force, and she watches his eyes widen and his face go blank, and then he collapses on top of her with a final, throaty groan. And this is when Buffy, Giles and Xander choose to burst in. Chaos ensues.

Oz is pushed violently off and out of Willow, and she is pulled to her feet. At first, she is simply too flabbergasted at the intrusion to resist or react in any way, only stands shivering, staring dumbly at the mayhem. Something sticky, blood or semen or both, is trickling down the insides of her thighs. She is vaguely aware of Xander holding her, asking her something in an urgent tone of voice. She can only focus on the image of Oz being jerked unceremoniously to his feet by a scowling Buffy, his nose spurting fountains of dark crimson blood from her punch. But when Xander begins to gently herd Willow out of the bathroom she rebels. She sees Buffy raise her fist to serve Oz another punch.

"Dammit, what are you doing?" Willow shouts, tearing herself loose from Xander. They all freeze, stunned by the deep, reverberating fury in her voice. Buffy's expression of determined bloodlust fades into a blank look of surprise. Her fist is still raised, but it looks more as if she has forgotten about it than anything else. Oz is still cowering in her grip, his bleeding arm up to protect his likewise bleeding face, but his eyes are sharp and focused on Willow. Xander has taken a step backwards, and in the middle of everything, Giles is looking from face to face, his own expression one of permanent befuddlement.

"What are you doing?" Willow repeats, in a slightly calmer tone of voice. She stares menacingly at Buffy. "Let him go!"

"But..." Buffy starts to object, but Willow is in no mood for explanations.

"Just unhand him," she hisses, feeling a little melodramatic and not caring the slightest. "He didn't hurt me." Buffy reluctantly obliges, stepping back from the naked and bruised boy with a final, incredulous glance at Willow.

As the explosive situation begin to unwind, Willow becomes quite suddenly aware of her own blatant nudity and generally dishevelled appearance. She represses an urge to wind her arms around herself, and instead nods towards the door.

"Just give us a minute, OK?" They still stand quietly and stubbornly staring at her. She notices that Oz is sagging, his face gone a sick, dusty grey.

"Leave!" she snaps, and finally they reluctantly shuffle out, closing the door behind them.

As soon as they are gone, Willow rushes to catch Oz, whose knees have just begun buckling under him. He almost slips through her arms, boneless as a Kewpie doll. For a while she is afraid he's lost consciousness, but then his arms come up to embrace her. She starts to cry in relief, and suspects he is crying as well, which just goes to show how tough this day has been for him, because Oz never lets go in that way.

"Are you OK?" she whispers, and he nods, pulling a hand furtively over his eyes. They get into the tub to wash off the mess. His hand slips unannounced between her legs and comes away bloody. She just shrugs and gives him a smile. She likes his natural approach to their new intimacy. And the blood, well, that's just the ink on the contract, isn't it?

There is a hesitant knock on the door.

"Out in a minute," Willow calls. Her eyes fall on the soggy scatter of her underwear on the floor. "And... uh... can someone bring us some clothes, please?"

They take their time drying eachother, for a few precious moments completely unmindful of everything else. Oz has already stopped bleeding, and the deep wounds on his wrists and ankles look like they were made last week.

***

They sit in the small kitchen, Buffy and Xander looking glum and a little guilty, Giles fussing over a pile of books. They all look up when Willow and Oz come in, and there is a brief, awkward silence. After all, they have just been caught in flagrante. Finally, Giles breaks the silence.

"Oh... there you are... I was, uh... consulting my books, about this peculiar accident... but I will need some more... information... " Willow and Oz share a glance, but neither one speaks. Giles frown slightly. "Or we could just call it a night and think about it all tomorrow..?"

"I don't know," Buffy interjects. "There is something seriously weird going on here."

"It's gone now," says Willow softly. Everyone, including Oz, turns to stare at her. She blushes delicately.

"How do you know?" Giles asks suspiciously. Willow shrugs and points out the window, at the perfectly ordinary waning moon.

"The black moon is gone."

"There was a black moon?" Now Giles's worry has dissolved into excitement. "Well, I must say. That certainly clarifies the circumstances. Of course... but what did you get in return?" Oz gives him a blank look, but Willow's color deepens a few shades.

"What do you mean, in return?" asks Xander with a frown.

"Well, the creature we're dealing with is very likely to be a sort of incubus, a-a sexual demon. And, contrary to popular belief, they usually trade for their pleasures."

"You mean they were bargaining with a demon?" Buffy says, wrinkling her nose a little.

"Oh, hardly consciously. My guess is, there was something they both... desired so deeply that the demon picked up on it, seeing a chance for a good deal, so to speak. Hmm... since it decided to torment Oz, it probably was a female presence..."

"No," says Oz suddenly, joining Willow in the race for deepest crimson complexion ever.

"No what?"

"No, it wasn't...er...female," he says, avoiding eye contact.

"You mean..?"

"It had a...it was a...well..."

"Oh man, you really know how to pick 'em," Xander blurts with his usual tact. "You got yourself buggered by a gay demon...weird."

"Why, thank you, Xander, for that keen observation," Giles says dryly. "So it was male... that's peculiar. Oh, of course, it might have thought a werewolf would be a more interesting target."

"A demon with a fur fetish," Xander ads.

"Yes, yes, Xander. But in any case, it must have offered some sort of compensation for the trouble."

Willow and Oz exchange another glance.

"We-ell..." Oz mumbles. Realisation dawns in Giles's face.

"Of course!" he exclaims. "Yes, we walked in on you... "

"Fornicating on the bath room floor," mutters Xander crossly.

"Uh...indeed...but the point is that Oz was quite human. It is a fact that werewolves are unable to sustain human form during sexual arousal. So there it is."

"So there it is," Xander repeats coldly. His face is almost hostile.

Willow can't help but see how the image of her naked and writhing under Oz must have been a shock to Xander's system. Still, despite all the good excuses in the world, she finds his reaction offensive. She is bone tired, sore, and simply wants everyone to leave. Everyone except Oz, of course. She doesn't want him to ever leave.

"Well, perhaps I can find something more... if I get to some proper research on the subject," Giles mumbles, a little awkwardly, apparently aware of the uncomfortable situation. He starts to get up, making a big deal out of looking for his car keys. Everyone ignores him. Xander is eyeballing Oz as if he is fantasizing about smashing his face in. Oz, pale and bruised, but no longer looking exactly dying, is meeting the hostility with impassive resistance, his trademark stoicism back in place.

"Was it worth it?" Xander snaps at him. Oz raises an eyebrow inquisitively. "Taking all that... shit, just to get a leg over Willow?"

"Get a leg over..." Oz repeats, incredulously. Willow is fuming, but simply too surprised to come up with a repartee. Buffy, however, is unhindered by amazement.

"Xander, get a sense of humor, alright? The smell of testosterone in here is making me gag."

"Stay out of it, Buffy," Xander says without deigning to look at her. "It's between me and Wolf boy here."

"Xander!" Willow manages to croak in desperation.

"Shut the fuck up, Will," he hisses back, and before Willow can unfreeze after _that_ shock, Oz has made a catlike leap over the table, tackling Xander and instinctively going for his throat like a rabid Doberman. They crash to the floor in a snarling heap, the rickety chair splintering and spreading debris all over the floor of the small kitchen. Buffy and Willow stare dumbfounded as the boys pummel eachother mercilessly. The scene is much like a couple of tomcats having it out over a dam. Xander fights like a street thug, using his knees and forehead prominently. Oz's tactics involve biting and scratching, but there is nothing girlie about the cold efficiency of it. Xander is already bleeding from half a dozen nasty scratches, and especially one wound just under the line of his jaw looks deep and gaping.

Finally Willow recovers and finds the scream that has been building up inside her. She lets it out. The sound propels Buffy into action, and she joins the scuffle, getting on top of the situation in five seconds flat, by way of throwing the antagonists into separate corners of the room. Oz hits the wall and crumples into a small, limp heap. Xander slumps, but stays sitting. He sports three parallel gouges across his forehead and cheekbone, and the blood streaking his face gives him a very gruesome, almost savage look.

"What is the matter with you?!" Buffy yells. Xander shrugs and winces at the pain in his shoulders.

"I just wanted to see if I could break through that smug I'm-so-cool-I-don't-have-to-give-a-shit act. And it seems like I did. I came, I saw, I got my ass kicked."

"Justice is served," purrs Buffy menacingly.

"Well, I guess I should go and clean my wounds. Wouldn't wanna catch rabies."

This is what one might call 'the straw that breaks the camel's back'. Willow walks up to Xander and slaps him a good one in his bleeding face with the might of all her fury. Then she marches over to Oz, who is now very slowly and carefully attempting to unfold his limbs and get up.

"Why'd you let him get up your nose? He's not exactly worth it when he's this way."

"I don't know. I just snapped. End-of-the-tether deal."

"Why don't you go to bed now? You look like you need it. I'll be right there after I deal with...with..." She trails off, and he smiles encouragingly.

"Alright. Sounds doable." He scrambles to his feet and shuffles out of the kitchen without even a glance at Xander.

"Maybe you should take Xander home," Willow suggests. The Slayer nods. "Oh, and tell him I'm not talking to him until he has apologized to both Oz and me. That's all." She turns quickly and leaves the room. She hears Xander's voice call after her.

"For what it's worth, Will, I am sorry."

"It's not worth anything until you mean it," she snaps, and keeps walking.

***

Oz is asleep on the covers. Willow pulls the sheets from under him, and he stirs languidly. His face is showing no signs of the latest tumble, although the bruises the demon left him with are still there in vivid Technicolor. His eyes look hollow and they are circled with the deep purple of fatigue.

"I bet I look like roadkill," he says as she lies down next to him.

"So do I. We're a match."

"Of course we are."


End file.
